and the waters prevailed by StormsBreadth  

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out of the deep have i called unto thee

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They decide that Heledholf will remain behind on the dais of the throne room, staying dry and keeping watch in case they run into trouble. They return to the boat to retrieve as much rope as possible, tying their lines together for maximum length, fashioning a clip they can use to anchor themselves to it and still swim with both arms. They grab blankets, too, ferrying them carefully back and piling them on the dais, and Celebrimbor fashions a harness for their lamps to fix them on his and Ribinvir's heads. He stows his retrieved treasures back on the boat. 

They go back in. 

The route they think they can take isn't that complicated. They're able to wade to the edge of the throne room, and down the stairs, fixing their ropes along the way. The main difficulty is the cold. Even having waded down, it still shocks him as he goes deeper, up past his legs and to his core. He moves around slowly, trying to convince himself that he's not about to die from it.

They swim carefully down the quiet, empty corridors, leaving the glow of Heledholf's lamp far behind them. Their lamps, rigged to their foreheads, cast a steady glow where they cast their gaze. 

The difficulty comes later. The storeroom, Celebrimbor knows, is down another level, tucked away, on the way to the lower training grounds. The corridor that leads down to it is fully submerged, the door at the end barely visible in the gloom. 

'Are you sure about this?' Ribinvir asks, as they hover at the entrance to the stairway, the last bit of friendly air. He's managed to find a steady perch, at least, a niche carved in the walls next to a wall bracket they've used to secure the ropes. Celebrimbor looks down the stairway and nods. 'I'll give the rope a tug every minute so you know I'm still alive,' he says. 'If I tug three times, or I haven't tugged in a few minutes, will you pull me back?'

'I will.'

Celebrimbor dives. 

The cold shocks him all over again as it closes over his head. Celebrimbor can immediately feel an ache in his cheeks, and his ears from it. But he's experienced worse, and he pushes through, down into the depths. 

The water is relatively clear here, Celebrimbor's light illuminating the walls and floors, the silt gathered at the bottom. It's kicked up by Celebrimbor's passing, creating a whirling cloud behind him. It's oddly peaceful under the water, the ordinary corridors transformed into an otherworldly landscape by the way the light passes through water, rather than air. Celebrimbor's angle adds to the strangeness. He's swimming horizontally, suspended above the ground as if in flight.

He presses forward, down to the door he can just make out at the end of the corridor. The water resists him: his body is lighter than the water and he has to fight against the upwards pressure as he goes. His ears are starting to ache, and he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the pressure – but he forces himself to ignore it, because there, up ahead of him, is the door, still stood fast against the outside. Celebrimbor kicks down to get close to it. 

The locks have long rusted, as have the hinges. Celebrimbor thinks that a good blow could take them off. He takes his knife and attempts to hit at the edge, but the cold and the pressure of the water make him clumsy, and it’s hard to aim while he’s also fighting against his own buoyancy. He misses, fumbles, almost drops his knife. Manoeuvres into position to try again. 

His lungs are starting to complain, but he ignores them for now. There’s a handle on the door, and a little bit of slack in his rope, so he winds it around the handle to keep him down here. This time, he tries wedging the knife in between the plate and the door itself. It manages to find a crack, and he hits the hilt of the knife instead. This is easier, and his blow lands. The lock shifts slightly, the knife driving down deeper into the crack. 

One more go. He grabs at the handle with both hands, and kicks off the wall. The movement dislodges the silt and it blooms up around him – but it works. The lock bends, comes loose - not fully out, but enough that Celebrimbor knows he can force it. But now his lungs are screaming air, air! and the edges of Celebrimbor's vision are turning shaded and dark, so he tugs on the rope three times and starts kicking wildly for the surface.

Coming up is less pleasant than going down. Celebrimbor is at the very edge of his body's limit for air, and the disturbed sediment has made the water a grimy, murky mess that gets in Celebrimbor's eyes, reducing his visibility to almost nothing. 

But Ribinvir is at the other end of the rope, pulling and guiding him, and after a few long seconds Celebrimbor suddenly breaks the surface, desperately sucking in great lungfuls of air. His head is pounding and he flails, disorientated – but there's suddenly an arm around his chest as Ribinvir catches him and pulls him back against his own body, sharing his stability and meagre warmth as Celebrimbor struggles to get his breath back. 

'Easy,' Ribinvir says. 'Easy.' 

It takes a couple of minutes before Celebrimbor can breathe steadily enough to talk properly. 

'The door was still locked. But I think I broke it. It's – I'm going to go down again.' 

'Are you sure?' Ribinvir asks, concern tinging his voice. 'We don't – the High King has no expectations for us to retrieve anything here. You don't need to.'

Celebrimbor laughs, shaky. 'He'd call us both idiots for sure. But I'm going to anyway. Just... give me a minute.'

They stay where they are for more than a minute. Heledholf pulls the rope at some point and Ribinvir pulls it back, the wordless communication letting her know they're both still alive. The water around them slowly settles, still murky but clearer than when Celebrimbor had just swum through. Eventually, he nods again. 

'I'm going back.'

'Valar protect you.' 

It's reflexive, Celebrimbor is sure. But in the moment, it feels ironic. Were it not for the Valar, these halls would not have flooded in the first place.

But then, were it not for the Valar, would they have ever existed? Can not most of the world be attributed to them, in the end? 

The water is no gentler the second time around. The silt has settled a little, but the water is still cloudy. Celebrimbor thanks his earlier self for his foresight in securing the rope: it makes going down the second time much easier.

His past self also did a better job than Celebrimbor realised on the lock. Now, the mechanism comes away with just a bit of manoeuvring from the knife. The water starts to shift around his hands, and a bubble of air floats up through the opening.

It's dry inside. 

Celebrimbor tugs at the door. It doesn't budge, of course: it's not only the locks keeping them shut, but the weight of the water itself. But maybe there's a way to make the pressure work for them. If he can get the door loose enough that the pressure could push them in, rather than having to tug them out. The hinges are as rusted as the lock. But he’s running low on air…

Another bubble of air rises to the surface... perhaps...

Giving the rope a swift tug so Ribinvir knows he's still alive, Celebrimbor puts his face to the gap where the lock had been, forming a seal with his hands. This is either a brilliant idea, or one that may literally kill him if he lets his air go with no replenishment – but no! Now that he's blocking the water from coming in, he feel air on his face and takes a shaky, grateful breath. 

The air is stale. But it is air. Celebrimbor breathes deeply for a few seconds, then retreats. Even with this new source of air, the weight of the water is immense, and the breathing hole is thin. He's bought time, is all. 

He swims down to one of the hinges, picking away at the screws, working his knife in at the edge. It takes less time than the locks did: the hinge is both less securely anchored, and he has the technique for opening them now. He manages to prise it off in the space of one breath, and the door bends slightly, letting more water in at the side. Better, but not the rush Celebrimbor was hoping for. He starts work on the next hinge, chipping away. 

He picks away at the second hinge, hitting the gap with his knife – and the door folds, buckling in the sudden weak point. The rush of water shoves Celebrimbor against the door, which breaks fully away from the hinges and into the room. At the same time, a rush of air bursts out of the room, throwing Celebrimbor in the opposite direction, such that his body feels like it’s being smashed apart. He flails wildly, desperately grabbing for the rope, but in the rush it seems to have come loose, leaving him unmoored and at the mercy of the tremendous force of water.

The flood catches him and smashes him against the back wall of the storeroom. He tucks his head in at the last second and avoids hitting it, but the force of it jars his bones, and it’s been too long since he managed to get any air. Running purely on adrenaline, he somehow manages to feel his way up the wall, until he feels air among the sloshing of the water and pulls himself up to take a desperate breath. 

Around him, the water seems to be calming, now that the initial flood is over. Sheets of paper float around him, the long-preserved ink growing blurry from the water. But the shelves were not only full of papers: Celebrimbor is sure he can see other shapes in the water, if he can only get a visual through the water…

‘Tyelpe!’ 

The word startles him out of his focus. He looks around wildly, and sees Ribinvir’s head in the waters near the door. His hair is flat against his head and his eyes are wild and worried. 

‘I’m here!’ Celebrimbor says, or tries to: his teeth are chattering too badly to actually make sense. 

‘I thought you were dead!’ 

He manages to shake his head. ‘No. No. It was – the door. Threw me.’ Words are harder than he’d realised, with how violently he’s shaking. 

‘We should go back to Heledholf to reassess! Come over here, I’ll help.’ 

‘I’m fine,’ Celebrimbor says. The water is settling again, and he thinks he sees a gleam of metal under the water. ‘Look, there’s –‘

Rather than try to make his words work to explain, Celebrimbor dives instead. But his limbs aren’t cooperating properly, he can’t get much depth, and he gets turned around. In the open room, it’s hard to tell which way is up. 

A hand grabs him by the arm, and Celebrimbor is hauled up to the surface by Ribinvir’s strong arms. 

‘Don’t do that,’ he says. ‘Tyelpe, fuck – what is wrong with you? We need to get back to Heledholf, we need – you’re bleeding.’ 

‘Just scrapes,’ Celebrimbor manages. ‘From the wall. I’m fine, there’s was something in the water. We should see what we can gather.’

‘We can do that later. If you were thrown against the wall, we need to make sure you’re not concussed.’ 

Celebrimbor opens his mouth to explain that he wasn’t concussed, when another wave of shivering overtakes him. ‘Fine.’ 

There’s a palpable expression of relief from Ribinvir, who tows Celebrimbor over to the doorway. ‘Wait here,’ he says, guiding Celebrimbor’s hands to the frame to hang onto. Celebrimbor considers complaining that he could do it himself, but he’s low on energy, so he just clings instead as Ribinvir finds the end of the rope for them to navigate by. 

‘Alright. Let’s go. You ahead of me.’ 

Celebrimbor does as he’s told. Truthfully, once they’re moving he can see the wisdom of it. He barely has the coordination to keep pulling himself hand over hand, even once he’s out of the fully underwater tunnel and back to the partially flooded corridors. Even once they’re back to the great hall, where the water is only thigh-deep, he can’t stand, and has to pull himself up onto the dais like a wet fish.

Heledholf, Valar bless her, has built a fire. 

'I think he’s concussed,’ Ribinvir says, as Celebrimbor attempts to strip his sodden tunic over his head, shivering violently. ‘You can do a diagnostic Song, can’t you?’

‘Yes, and the standard healing checks as well,’ she says, then hisses. Celebrimbor turns to look at her, and sees that she was looking at his back. He glances down: the tunic in his hands is torn and tinged with blood. His back must look a sight, and it will be worse once the bruises start to emerge. 

‘I’m fine,’ Celebrimbor says. ‘It looks worse than it is.’

‘Who is the current High King?’ Heledholf asks. Celebrimbor huffs in annoyance. 

‘Ereinion Gil-galad, son of Orodreth Noldoran. I can trace the line back to Finwë if you like.’ 

He drops his tunic and picks up a blanket, wrapping it around himself. The dry wool, warmed by the meagre fire, settles comfortably around him and he immediately feels significantly better. 

‘Do you remember how you got the injury?’

She’s running through all the questions then. At least his teeth have stopped chattering quite so badly. ‘I was in a submerged tunnel trying to get a door open. The room behind was sealed, so it was air, and when I managed to open it the force of the water filling the space behind threw me against the wall.’ Now that he’s wrapped in a blanket and slowly warming up, he can admit that this was not, perhaps, his wisest scheme. He blames the lack of air. 

‘And you say you didn’t hit your head?’

‘I managed to tuck it into my body.’

‘Let me check.’

It’s not phrased as optional. 

Celebrimbor bows his head, letting her feel around his skull. She Sings something that seems to cut a line right down the middle of Celebrimbor’s brain. His ears ring with the echoes of it. 

Eventually, she seems satisfied. ‘He’s not concussed. Just an idiot.’ 

Celebrimbor grimaces, but doesn’t argue with her assessment.

‘I’m going back down,’ he says, to joint expressions of horror from Heledholf and Ribinvir. ‘No, listen, the water will have calmed again, and I know there were things worth diving for down there. Come with me, or don’t, be I am going to retrieve what I can.’ 

‘I don’t think the High King would want you to risk your life for trinkets.’ 

‘I’m not. But I am going.’ He stares them down, implacable. One thing Celebrimbor knows, has learnt from experience, is that there are few people he can’t out-stubborn if he puts his mind to it. Not his father. Not the High King. Certainly not Ribinvir or Heledholf. And he needs to get back down there. 

It’s a pull he can’t quite explain, but it’s always been there. The need to see something to its full conclusion, once it’s started, the unerring fix on a target. Perhaps he inherited it. But he won’t be dissuaded. 

‘Fine,’ Ribinvir says. ‘But the ropes aren’t long enough to reach into that room properly, and I’m not letting you go in unsecured again.’ He looks around at Heledholf. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to get wet.’ 

She grimaces, but nods. ‘Alright. When you’re ready.’ 

It takes longer than Celebrimbor would like for his body to stop shivering, but he eventually warms up, curled up with a blanket between his body and the cold floor as well as between himself and the air. His plait drips onto the ground, the water running to the central crack in little rivulets. 

Eventually, he thinks he’s ready to go back in. He stands, stretches, turns to Ribinvir. ‘Are you ready?’ he asks. 

Ribinvir, who had been doing much the same thing but slightly more stoically, gets up as well. ‘I still think you mad. But yes. Heledholf?’

She doesn’t say anything but nods, lips pressed tightly together. 

Now that the doors are open and there’s a sure supply of air, it’s less stressful to go down the corridor. They leave Heledholf where Ribinvir had been, her end of the rope secured to an old wall bracket, as Celebrimbor and Ribinvir follow it down to the storeroom. 

Celebrimbor is tired, but it’s faded to the kind of tired he can work through, motivated by the imminent end to their quest. 

The contents of the storeroom are a mess. As Celebrimbor suspected, it’s mostly paper items, many of which have risen up and now float on the surface, gently bleeding ink into the water. Celebrimbor bundles a bunch of them up to bring back to Heledholf to dry, putting them on a high shelf above the water line. Other items rest under the waves, and he and Ribinvir take turns diving. 

Much of what they dredge up is meaningless, the detritus of state put somewhere out of the way. But they do manage to dredge up some pieces of meaning. Bits of Orodreth’s armour, jewellery worn for various affairs of state. A votive statue of the Lord of Waters. Celebrimbor wonders how Ereinion will respond to that. A belt buckle, a knife – part of a matched pair given by Celebrimbor. They can’t find its mate but, well. Celebrimbor can forge another.

It’s not much, but it’s something tangible. Proof that Nargothrond once existed, that it was once ruled over by King Finrod, King Orodreth. So few escaped the destruction, Celebrimbor thinks he could name them all individually. Celebrimbor wishes we could lift the whole city, place it safely on dry land as a monument forever. 

But he can’t. So he clings to the scraps they pull out of one old storeroom and ferries them all, slowly, painstakingly, over the course of many trips, up to the throne room again. There, they pause for a while to warm up again before carrying everything from the throne room to the surface. 

They emerge into the thin light of the moon and the distant glow of the stars, tired and hungry, treading the thin line between exhaustion and euphoria. They drop their hoard in the boat and collapse, dead eyed and blank – until suddenly Celebrimbor is laughing. It’s infectious: Ribinvir starts a moment later. Heledholf frowns for a second, disapproving, before a smile cracks her stern expression and she’s laughing too. 

They laugh until tears roll down their cheeks, and they’re not so much sitting together as slumped in a heap. Celebrimbor wraps his arms around both of them. 

‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘Thank you.’

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Chapter End Notes

Title from Psalm 130:1